Life Without and Life Within; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems.
uniform, her manner much subdued. Her chief interest seemed now to lie
in her studies and in music. Her companions she never sought; but they,
partly from uneasy, remorseful feelings, partly that they really liked
her much better now that she did not oppress and puzzle them, sought her
continually. And here the black shadow comes upon her life--the only
stain upon the history of Mariana.
They talked to her as girls, having few topics, naturally do of one
another. And the demon rose within her, and spontaneously, without
design, generally without words of positive falsehood, she became a
genius of discord among them. She fanned those flames of envy and
jealousy which a wise, true word from a third person will often quench
forever; by a glance, or a seemingly light reply, she planted the seeds
of dissension, till there was scarce a peaceful affection or sincere
intimacy in the circle where she lived, and could not but rule, for she
was one whose nature was to that of the others as fire to clay.
It was at this time that I came to the school, and first saw Mariana. Me
she charmed at once, for I was a sentimental child, who, in my early ill
health, had been indulged in reading novels till I had no eyes for the
common greens and browns of life. The heroine of one of these, "the
Bandit's Bride," I immediately saw in Mariana. Surely the Bandit's Bride
had just such hair, and such strange, lively ways, and such a sudden
flash of the eye. The Bandit's Bride, too, was born to be
"misunderstood" by all but her lover. But Mariana, I was determined,
should be more fortunate; for, until her lover appeared, I myself would
be the wise and delicate being who could understand her.
It was not, however, easy to approach her for this purpose. Did I offer
to run and fetch her handkerchief, she was obliged to go to her room,
and would rather do it herself. She did not like to have people turn
over for her the leaves of the music book as she played. Did I approach
my stool to her feet, she moved away, as if to give me room. The bunch
of wild flowers which I timidly laid beside her plate was left there.
After some weeks my desire to attract her notice really preyed upon me,
and one day, meeting her alone in the entry, I fell upon my knees, and
kissing her hand, cried, "O Mariana, do let me love you, and try to love
me a little." But my idol snatched away her hand, and, laughing more
wildly than the Bandit's Bride was ever described to have done, ran into
her room. After that day her manner to me was not only cold, but
repulsive; I felt myself scorned, and became very unhappy.
Perhaps four months had passed thus, when, one afternoon, it became
obvious that something more than common was brewing. Dismay and mystery
were written in many faces of the older girls; much whispering was going
on in corners.
In the evening, after prayers, the principal bade us stay; and, in a
grave, sad voice, summoned forth Mariana to answer charges to be made
against her.
Mariana came forward, and leaned against the chimney-piece. Eight of the
older girls came forward, and preferred against her charges--alas! too
well founded--of calumny and falsehood.
My heart sank within me, as one after the other brought up their proofs,
and I saw they were too strong to be resisted. I could not bear the
thought of this second disgrace of my shining favorite. The first had
been whispered to me, though the girls did not like to talk about it. I
must confess, such is the charm of strength to softer natures, that
neither of these crises could deprive Mariana of hers in my eyes.
At first, she defended herself with self-possession and eloquence. But
when she found she could no more resist the truth, she suddenly threw
herself down, dashing her head, with all her force, against the iron
hearth, on which a fire was burning, and was taken up senseless.
The affright of those present was great. Now that they had perhaps
killed her, they reflected it would have been as well if they had taken
warning from the former occasion, and approached very carefully a nature
so capable of any extreme. After a while she revived, with a faint
groan, amid the sobs of her companions. I was on my knees by the bed,
and held her cold hand. One of those most aggrieved took it from me to
beg her pardon, and say it was impossible not to love her. She made no
reply.
Neither that night, nor for several days, could a word be obtained from
her, nor would she touch food; but, when it was presented to her, or any
one drew near for any cause, she merely turned away her head, and gave
no sign. The teacher saw that some terrible nervous affection had fallen
upon her--that she grew more and more feverish. She knew not what to
do.
Meanwhile, a new revolution had taken place in the mind of the
passionate but nobly-tempered child. All these months nothing but the
sense of injury had rankled in her heart. She had gone on in one mood,
doing what the demon prompted, without scruple and without fear.
But at the moment of detection, the tide ebbed, and the bottom of her
soul lay revealed to her eye. How black, how stained and sad! Strange,
strange that she had not seen before the baseness and cruelty of
falsehood, the loveliness of truth. Now, amid the wreck, uprose the
moral nature which never before had attained the ascendant. "But," she
thought, "too late sin is revealed to me in all its deformity, and
sin-defiled, I will not, cannot live. The mainspring of life is broken."
And thus passed slowly by her hours in that black despair of which only
youth is capable. In older years men suffer more dull pain, as each
sorrow that comes drops its leaden weight into the past, and, similar
features of character bringing similar results, draws up the heavy
burden buried in those depths. But only youth has energy, with fixed,
unwinking gaze, to contemplate grief, to hold it in the arms and to the
heart, like a child which makes it wretched, yet is indubitably its own.
The lady who took charge of this sad child had never well understood her
before, but had always looked on her with great tenderness. And now love
seemed--when all around were in greatest distress, fearing to call in
medical aid, fearing to do without it--to teach her where the only balm
was to be found that could have healed this wounded spirit.
One night she came in, bringing a calming draught. Mariana was sitting,
as usual, her hair loose, her dress the same robe they had put on her at
first, her eyes fixed vacantly upon the whited wall. To the proffers and
entreaties of her nurse she made no reply.
The lady burst into tears, but Mariana did not seem even to observe it.
The lady then said, "O my child, do not despair; do not think that one
great fault can mar a whole life. Let me trust you, let me tell you the
griefs of my sad life. I will tell to you, Mariana, what I never
expected to impart to any one."
And so she told her tale: it was one of pain, of shame, borne, not for
herself, but for one near and dear as herself. Mariana knew the
lady--knew the pride and reserve of her nature. She had often admired to
see how the cheek, lovely, but no longer young, mantled with the deepest
blush of youth, and the blue eyes were cast down at any little emotion:
she had understood the proud sensibility of the character. She fixed her
eyes on those now raised to hers, bright with fast-falling tears. She
heard the story to the end, and then, without saying a word, stretched
out her hand for the cup.
She returned to life, but it was as one who has passed through the
valley of death. The heart of stone was quite broken in her, the fiery
life fallen from flame to coal. When her strength was a little restored,
she had all her companions summoned, and said to them, "I deserved to
die, but a generous trust has called me back to life. I will be worthy
of it, nor ever betray the truth, or resent injury more. Can you forgive
the past?"
And they not only forgave, but, with love and earnest tears, clasped in
their arms the returning sister. They vied with one another in offices
of humble love to the humbled one; and let it be recorded as an instance
of the pure honor of which young hearts are capable, that these facts,
known to forty persons, never, so far as I know, transpired beyond those
walls.
It was not long after this that Mariana was summoned home. She went
thither a wonderfully instructed being, though in ways that those who
had sent her forth to learn little dreamed of.
Never was forgotten the vow of the returning prodigal. Mariana could not
resent, could not play false. The terrible crisis which she so early
passed through probably prevented the world from hearing much of her. A
wild fire was tamed in that hour of penitence at the boarding school
such as has oftentimes wrapped court and camp in its destructive glow.
But great were the perils she had yet to undergo, for she was one of
those barks which easily get beyond soundings, and ride not lightly on
the plunging billow.
Her return to her native climate seconded the effects of inward
revolutions. The cool airs of the north had exasperated nerves too
susceptible for their tension. Those of the south restored her to a more
soft and indolent state. Energy gave place to feeling--turbulence to
intensity of character.
At this time, love was the natural guest; and he came to her under a
form that might have deluded one less ready for delusion.
Sylvain was a person well proportioned to her lot in years, family, and
fortune. His personal beauty was not great, but of a noble description.
Repose marked his slow gesture, and the steady gaze of his large brown
eye; but it was a repose that would give way to a blaze of energy, when
the occasion called. In his stature, expression, and heavy coloring, he
might not unfitly be represented by the great magnolias that inhabit the
forests of that climate. His voice, like every thing about him, was rich
and soft, rather than sweet or delicate.
Mariana no sooner knew him than she loved; and her love, lovely as she
was, soon excited his. But O, it is a curse to woman to love first, or
most! In so doing she reverses the natural relations; and her heart can
never, never be satisfied with what ensues.
Mariana loved first, and loved most, for she had most force and variety
to love with. Sylvain seemed, at first, to take her to himself, as the
deep southern night might some fair star; but it proved not so.
Mariana was a very intellectual being, and she needed companionship.
This she could only have with Sylvain, in the paths of passion and
action. Thoughts he had none, and little delicacy of sentiment. The
gifts she loved to prepare of such for him he took with a sweet but
indolent smile; he held them lightly, and soon they fell from his grasp.
He loved to have her near him, to feel the glow and fragrance of her
nature, but cared not to explore the little secret paths whence that
fragrance was collected.
Mariana knew not this for a long time. Loving so much, she imagined all
the rest; and, where she felt a blank, always hoped that further
communion would fill it up. When she found this could never be,--that
there was absolutely a whole province of her being to which nothing in
his answered,--she was too deeply in love to leave him. Often, after
passing hours together beneath the southern moon, when, amid the sweet
intoxication of mutual love, she still felt the desolation of solitude,
and a repression of her finer powers, she had asked herself, Can I give
him up? But the heart always passionately answered, No! I may be
wretched with him, but I cannot live without him.
And the last miserable feeling of these conflicts was, that if the
lover--soon to be the bosom friend--could have dreamed of these